Cataveiro

by E. J. Swift

  He tells Vikram that today will be the day: he will find the agents. Vikram looks at him without expression but Taeo senses his disbelief.

  ‘We’d have more luck searching together,’ says Vikram.

  Taeo feels panicked at the mere idea.

  ‘No. We agreed, it’s too dangerous. The villagers are bound to have given your description. Half of Patagonia will be looking for you.’

  ‘They know what you look like as well.’

  ‘I speak the language. And I know who I’m looking for. Besides, they can’t arrest an Antarctican.’

  He holds Vikram’s gaze, worried that the other man will call his bluff. He feels like a jailer.

  But the Osirian says only, ‘You should ask the beggars,’ and shuts the door to his room. Fleetingly, the thought crosses Taeo’s mind that Vikram is just playing along, then he discards it. He can’t afford to give in to paranoia. Vikram knows this is for his own safety.

  Taeo returns to the hot, languid streets. It is a strange world, this city, always in ascent or descent. Something is forever catching your eye: a child scrambling up a ladder, an invalid being lowered in a sling in a building without lifts. He watches furtively from behind his sunglasses.

  First he tries the vendors. Every time he is offered something, on a tray or from an open hatch, he asks, ‘I need to find someone, who do I go to to find someone?’

  The reaction is invariably the same. They refuse to acknowledge him, hastily foisting their wares on to some other sorry bastard. Taeo can sense the circle around him again.

  He tries the vendors. He tries the humitas sellers and the grain sellers and the cloth sellers. He tries the buskers. He tries the beggars, as Vikram said. He tries the acolytes in the Houses of the Nazca. With each approach he makes, he is aware of the flimsiness of his cover. Another avenue closed, another witness to remember his face. He needs to find the person who knows. There is always someone who knows. He is skimming the surface of the city, and there is a whole other city underneath the one he sees, but he cannot find a way in.

  Shadows lengthen. The afternoon is vanishing before his eyes. He sits on a flight of steps leading up to a public building, neither knowing nor caring what it might be. On the other side of the steps a juggler is plying the street crowd. Taeo follows the movement of her hands, the red-and-white batons revolving in patterns whose logic is accidental or premeditated, he doesn’t know which, and he thinks that the course of his own life now appears similarly inexplicable, even to himself. The juggler drops a baton and gives a rueful, yet knowing smile. Taeo cannot tell if it is part of the act.

  He watches people walking past. Citizens of a non-nation. A gamine boy with a shaved head. A girl wearing a wide-brimmed hat, something of the outback about her; he can picture her in Antarctica, measuring ice melt. A child carrying a pocket radio, the unit swinging from her hand, mouthing the words to the issuing song. Are they happy, are they unhappy? How many lives does this city hold? Fifty thousand? A hundred?

  He feels weary thinking about it. He has never considered Vosti Settlement in such stark terms. Vosti just is, and it is only here, where he feels so far removed, that he has these thoughts.

  The boy is watching him from across the street.

  It’s a scruffy, ill-kempt boy, in his early teens. The boy meets Taeo’s eyes quite deliberately, and then turns and starts to walk away.

  The boy leads him through the streets, down narrow alleys and through hidden courtyards, over and under bridges. They cross the tramlines one way and cross them again another. He quickly loses all sense of location. The boy darts in and out of view and he begins to wonder if he is chasing someone actually there, but he is lost and it is too late to stop. At last the boy scurries down a reeking backstreet. He pulls down the ladder to a metal fire escape, and begins to climb.

  Taeo follows gingerly, first the ladder, then up the steps. The boy’s shoes make no noise. Taeo feels loud and clumsy. He will never get used to these precarious constructions. He follows the boy up to the very top, where the boy wedges open a window and climbs through. Taeo hesitates, then does the same.

  He is standing inside the reception room of a small apartment. An unfurnished space. The walls painted off-white and empty. The front door, presumably leading to the interior stairwell of the building, is kept shut with three heavy bolts.

  On the other side of the room, a screen hangs over an open archway. Printed with birds and jaguars, it is the sort of thing that is foisted upon out-of-towners: culture bought cheap. He hears a querulous voice from within.

  ‘Yes, Mig, bring him in.’

  The boy reappears through the screen and says, ‘She’ll see you now.’

  Taeo hovers, uncertain.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Alaskan,’ says the boy, impatiently. ‘Don’t keep her waiting.’

  A Boreal.

  He has never met a Boreal before.

  He pushes through the screen. An old woman is lying in a bed, surrounded by radios.

  Taeo is not sure exactly what he expected in those brief anticipatory seconds. Someone plump and healthy, perhaps marked with robotics (the worst propaganda he has seen shows them sprouting with wires). Not this angular, faded creature propped against the wall. The Alaskan’s face is lined like a piece of ceramic containing a hundred hairline fractures. She has the darkest eyes of anyone he has ever known. Strangely so. Not quite human.

  The Alaskan leans over and switches off a boxy radio, the antenna of which protrudes out of the window.

  ‘I understand you’ve been looking for me,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve been looking for someone. I don’t know if it’s you or not.’

  ‘You’ve been looking for me. And raising quite a stir while you’re doing it. Mig says he’s never seen anyone so indiscreet.’

  Taeo glances behind him, just in time to catch the boy’s head swiftly withdrawing through the screen.

  ‘You’re not a spy, that’s for certain,’ says the Alaskan. Her eyes travel over him. The eyes of a collector, he thinks. ‘Have a seat,’ she says, pointing to a chair. Taeo removes a radio and sits, warily. The heat up here is intense; he is already sweating from the climb, and now he can feel it pooling in his armpits. Afternoon light streams through the windows in concentrated beams, hiding nothing, not the sling hanging over the bed, not the Alaskan’s mottled hands, or the slight hump of her legs under a plain brown cover. The Alaskan wants to be seen.

  Her windows have no shutters. He glances at the smeared, slightly grimy panes, wondering. Is that bufferglass? If so, it is a subtle, but a strong statement. The Alaskan has means, and she has connections.

  She sees him looking and smiles. He realizes it does not matter if the windows are made of bufferglass or not; the fact that he has considered it is enough.

  ‘There isn’t always time for discretion,’ he says. ‘I know nobody here, and I need answers quickly. My method seems to have worked.’

  ‘Too well,’ she says. ‘Mig was tailing you for most of the day.’

  ‘Then Mig might have presented himself a few hours earlier.’

  ‘He might,’ she says. ‘But he is trained to observe.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what the boy said? I’m the Alaskan. That’s what they call me, anyway.’

  The Alaskan inhales, a hollow sucking sound that reminds Taeo of spring slush underfoot. Her body spasms. For a moment he is concerned, then he realizes she is laughing.

  ‘Do you have a real name?’ he asks.

  ‘Not any more,’ she says. Her gaze settles upon him. There is a strange satisfaction in being looked at, really seen, after all this time.

  ‘What about in Alaska?’

  She says nothing.

  ‘I’m not from here either,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. I can hear that. Your accent is unmistakeable.’

  Something in her tone offends him. Mockery? She is Alaskan. A Boreal. But her Spanish has no discernible accent. He
experiences a sudden, overwhelming desire to know what she knows. Everything she has ever experienced – he wants to know it and feel it for himself. If the Alaskan’s memories were a pool, he would wallow in them.

  ‘Is it true the Boreal States have reintroduced scapular chips?’

  She does the silent laugh. Another long, wet inhalation.

  ‘The first question is always the same question. Even from you.’

  It takes Taeo a moment to register that she has switched effortlessly to Portuguese.

  ‘What do you mean, even from me?’

  ‘Don’t you consider yourself a notch above these Patagonians? Better educated? All the Antarcticans I have met are proud.’

  ‘And how many Antarcticans have you met, exactly?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘I’ve never been north of the belt,’ he says.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘And it’s rare that Boreals venture south, never mind staying here. You can understand why I might be interested.’

  ‘Mmm. You’ve never been anywhere except Antarctica, have you, Taeo Ybanez?’

  Taeo goes cold. The Alaskan’s eyes gleam with swift triumph as she continues.

  ‘Taeo Ybanez, Brazilian-Antarctican engineer, partnered, a father, previously exiled at the Facility in Tierra del Fuego under pretence of being a botanist and now appeared, mysteriously or fortuitously, depending upon your viewpoint, here in Cataveiro. Have I got anything wrong? Do correct me if I have. I like to know I’ve got all the facts.’

  With each word she utters he seems to fall further backwards. There is nothing beneath him. There is nothing to break the fall. The air is rushing against his back.

  ‘I listen to the radio,’ says the Alaskan. Taeo suppresses a shudder. Despite her declaimer, he cannot discard the notion that she might be wired up, that the Boreals have invented telepathy, or dug up who knows what from the vaults of the knowledge banks. Suddenly he understands the pilot’s reaction to the holoma.

  ‘But you were not very hard to trace,’ the Alaskan adds. ‘And you won’t be hard to trace at all, if you keep this up. We must do better, Taeo.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he manages.

  ‘I think the question is, what do you want from me.’

  ‘No,’ he says. His mouth is very dry. ‘Let’s be honest, at least. Your … messenger, found me, and brought me here. You have a reason.’

  The Alaskan grasps the sling above her and pulls herself up into a more upright position, displaying a strength and agility that surprises him.

  ‘Mig, the tea,’ she calls sharply.

  The boy appears silently. He places a steaming cup on a saucer at her elbow and disappears again. The Alaskan stirs syrup into the tea and for a while the only sound is the rasping of the spoon against the ceramic. She makes no move to offer him a drink.

  ‘The greatest currency in this country is information,’ she says. ‘There is a war on, a silent war, but a war nonetheless. You and I both know that. Patagonia is a porous membrane wedged between two aggressors. This city is a hotbed of spies. So it is useful to me to know that you, an Antarctican, are here. At this stage, I have no intention of doing anything with that information. But it’s my currency, and I don’t mind telling you that, either.’ She smiles over the edge of the teacup. ‘I like to give people a fighting chance, especially when I think they might possess some intelligence. Now tell me what you want.’

  Taeo’s head is whirling.

  She’s dangerous. She’s informing me, outright, that she is dangerous. But what choice do I have? She knows I’ve got nothing. She knows. She knows.

  ‘I’m looking for someone in the Antarctican network.’

  The Alaskan slurps at her tea. He can smell the syrup in it.

  ‘Tricky to find. They’re all bluffs and doubles, the Antarcticans. Suspicious types. Never use the radio.’

  ‘But you could find them.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘It’s a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Urgency to whom?’

  ‘To everyone this side of the belt,’ he says. ‘You said I’m an exile. If you know my name then there’s no point in me denying it. But I’m not blind either. This is no palace you’re living in and clearly you get along by your wits. There’s a reason you’re not in Alaska any more.’

  He leans forwards a little, watching her face closely.

  ‘In fact, I’d be willing to bet that you were cast out too.’

  The Alaskan’s gaze does not falter. But neither does she deny the accusation.

  She says, ‘I wouldn’t choose to live in Alaska now. We lost a lot of assets in the year of the Great Storm, and the economy never really recovered. Expensive assets, too. There were the arks. There was the sea city. What a lot of investment lost.’

  All at once they are back where they were, playing games. But this second shock is more manageable after the Alaskan’s earlier reveal. Taeo is able to keep a hold of his composure.

  ‘We all know what happened to the sea city,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. The Osiris project was a visionary idea. It is most unfortunate what … happened.’

  ‘I imagine the north must regret that investment now.’ It is a long time since he spoke to anyone who was so well informed. He is almost beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Now that it’s gone.’

  The old woman looks at him steadily.

  ‘I’ve heard a rumour that the sea city is still out there.’

  Taeo forces himself to breathe normally.

  ‘How strange. I haven’t heard that rumour.’

  The Alaskan’s dark eyes are shrewd.

  ‘Rumours come and go over the years,’ she says. ‘Like fashion. I have heard many. I have heard the ones where the citizens of Osiris live as angels taken up by ancient gods, only their wings are fins like the flying fish of old. I have heard the rumours that they were whisked away to the underworld of their city’s name. I have even heard that they are devils, forced to dine upon their own kind, living as cannibals on seaweed and human flesh. Cannibals. Ferocious indeed. And of course, I have heard that one of their number landed upon Patagonian shores but a few weeks ago, be he angel, devil, ghost or cannibal.’

  She sets the teacup aside. Her smile blooms slowly.

  ‘But you have not heard that rumour,’ she says.

  ‘No,’ says Taeo. ‘I have not.’

  Her black eyes meet his. For a moment he imagines he can hear the whirring of her brain in motion, as though she is powered by clockwork. He wonders what on earth she did to get herself banished from Alaska.

  The Alaskan uses a slender pole to switch on the radio in the window.

  ‘Ah. The shipping news. I enjoy the shipping news. Don’t you?’

  ‘It has its uses.’

  ‘Come back tomorrow,’ she says. ‘We’ll see if we can find your agent.’

  23 ¦

  MORE OFTEN THAN he feels he ought to be, Mig is amazed by the stupidity of adults, even – especially – when they believe themselves at their most intelligent. The Tarkie is an exemplar of this particular type, and his belief of being better and smarter than the Patagonians makes it all the worse for him. He enjoyed tangling with the Alaskan. Mig could see it. He can tell when two people are trying to outsmart one another, even when he does not know exactly how they are doing it – but he could also see where the power lay. The Alaskan was toying. She had that gleam in her eyes, the one Mig has seen and been on the bad end of before now.

  The Tarkie does not know who the Alaskan is. And he doesn’t know what she is either. Mig shudders. He could tell the Tarkie some things. Perhaps the Tarkie would be less sure of himself if he knew the Alaskan keeps a list of her debtors, and has methods of dealing with those who renege on their bonds.

  Nor does the Tarkie know he is being followed, even though he keeps glancing over his shoulder and taking sudden evasive actions through narrow streets, which inevitably leads to him losing his way and having to ask for directions. Mig
cannot blame him so much for his poor skills of deduction. Mig is one of the best trackers on the streets and, although the Tarkie’s paranoia is making his job more difficult, it is by no means making it impossible. He trails the Tarkie right back to Avenue Lorado in the red light district, which is home to the notorious Madame Bijou’s brothel.

  Mig sighs. He can see what the Tarkie thinks he is doing, but really there is no such thing as hiding in plain sight. There is hiding well, and hiding badly. If the Tarkie really knew the city, he would know that Bijou gets raided regularly, because Bijou’s main game is not the girls, or the boys, it’s gambling. The Tarkie would have been better off taking up an apartment in some filthy tenement block full of croc addicts.

  The Tarkie goes up into the stairwell. Mig waits at the bottom and listens to his footsteps. He counts five floors. He pads silently upstairs. The Tarkie is living in the place right opposite Bijou’s, where Old Man Guido was murdered just a few weeks back. That was a sad business. Guido was one for the stories and the tequila, not a bad man, though dangerous when provoked, mad and raging dangerous, not cold and sinister dangerous like the Alaskan. Guido is ashes now.

  Mig puts his ear to the door. He hears low voices. Two speakers. Both male. There is someone else in the apartment, just as the Alaskan thought.

  The Alaskan believes it is an Osirian, a man from the lost sea city. But that is not possible because everyone knows what happened in the lost city fifty years ago: all the Osirians went mad and killed themselves on a chosen day, leaping one by one into the ocean, and there they drowned. He told the Alaskan this, and the Alaskan laughed as though it were a joke. She said: That’s a new one, Mig. Let’s see if our friend is a fish, shall we? She laughed so hard she dropped her tea. Cleaning up her mess, Mig thought that he would not be so surprised if the Osirian (if he really is an Osirian) turned out to have scales.